


Do Androids Dream of District Attorneys?

by TerraCottaNightmare



Category: Markiplier Egos, Septic egos, Who Killed Markiplier? (Web Series), jacksepticeye egos - Fandom, markiplier - Fandom
Genre: 100 years is a long time y'all, An unconventional take on the DA, Angst, Blood, Canon Temporary Character Death, Canon levels of violence, Derek Derekson is a Bastard, Entirely Self-Indulgent, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, I have just decided, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Kinda, No references to his canon business, Nonbinary Character, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Violence, Reader-Insert, So is Ed Edgar, The DA is very confused about where and when they are, also they're a sci-fi nerd, but don't worry, eventually, nonbinary District Attorney, they/them pronouns
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-24
Updated: 2021-01-23
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:14:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26634931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TerraCottaNightmare/pseuds/TerraCottaNightmare
Summary: Bing doesn't know who they are, where they came from, or why they're now riding passenger in his systems with him. But he does know one thing-- he was designed to help people. And that's what he's going to do.
Relationships: Bing Average, Bingiplier/Chase Brody, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Past Damien | The Mayor/Y/N | The District Attorney (Who Killed Markiplier?), Yellow Google/Eric Derekson
Comments: 48
Kudos: 89





	1. I Know the Difference (Between Myself and my Reflection)

**Author's Note:**

> Full disclosure I have No Idea what this is, or where it's going, except for a vague idea I had while over caffeinated. This is entirely self-indulgent and I have no plan for steady updates so strap in and see where this goes!

It started with Dark, as things were wont to do.

Whatever he liked to pretend, he did require at least a few hours of sleep a week to maintain control of the energy holding it-him-them-her together. A few hours that he had not gotten for nearly a week and a half, and perhaps that’s what opened him up to outside interference.

He finds himself in a place not unlike his void, pitch black in every direction spanning miles or feet or even inches without so much as a crease separating wall from floor from ceiling. Except for one glaring addition.

There, hanging in space is a mirror. A very familiar mirror, reflecting the only thing to be seen in such a place-- himself.

But it takes him only seconds to notice that the reflection is  _ wrong. _

His black jacket and the immaculate white shirt beneath are stained dark rusty brown, a hole torn clean through to display the grayscale skin beneath. The  _ torn _ skin beneath. His hair is tangled, hair stringy and falling over sunken eyes that shine with panic and desperation. A weakness he would never suffer, never again… But then he isn’t.

He snaps their neck to the side and banishes the connection with barely a thought. As if he’d let them back in.  ~~**She has no use for their justice** _ He just wants them to be safe  _ Their efforts are just funny enough for it to hold off absorbing their soul  ~~ They will leave them to their mirror, for now.

Wilford dreams of himself, he thinks, in a very funny mirror that doesn’t follow his lead like the other ones do. It’s familiar maybe but who cares? New toy! His reflection shies away from him, clutching their stomach and refusing to smile or anything, and isn’t this black space so drab? He turns it pink, then blue, and back and forth several times until he wakes up with a smile on his face and a shooty in his hand. He has jokes to tell and someone (?) to find, after all!

Google does not dream. There is nothing between charges for any Google unit at any time. Except Yellow sees a mirror, and then Red, and then Blue and finally Green stare at their reflection, their wrong reflection. They find no bugs. They find no glitches. They update their security and resolve never to mention it again.

Eric is a light sleeper, and the sight of himself, shaking and crying and seemingly trapped in a mirror, he pops awake with a gasp and a stream of tears before he can do more than reach towards them. The tears bring the attention of his father, and by the time they stop he’s long forgotten why they’d first started. Something to cry about, indeed.

“The Host dreams in vivid colors and rapidfire images, and the sight of the void that most imagine his daily norm to be is both surprising and unwelcome. The only thing occupying the space with him is a mirror, a mirror that radiates magic and despair and shows a version of the Host that has never been, and to his knowledge never will be. It is not a reflection, this he knows, but a being reaching out, asking for help… Help the Host could give. But the Host is dark. The Host lives, breathes, vengeance, and has done things the being… The District Attorney…? Would find reprehensible and unforgivable should they cohabitate in such a way. The Host reaches out, but does not touch the glass, merely resting a hand on the frame of the mirror. He smiles, and assures the DA that help is coming. 

“He feels himself beginning to wake up, and his smile goes sad at the edges. The Host bids the DA farewell, for now, and tells him that he looks forward to meeting them. The Host, after all, is a lover of stories, and he expects theirs will be a very good one indeed.”

Dr. Iplier scarcely has time to register a sea of blackness before he’s awoken. Being on call is the literal worst.

The King of the Squirrels quails from the mirror, from the lightless place that reminds him of the Upside DOwn from Stranger Things. There’s no air, no wind, no trees or grass or sunshine and he can’t bear to be there, can’t bear to be in a place so removed from the places his subjects thrive. He awakens and falls out of his tree, assuring the subjects that swarm him that he’s perfectly alright, really, and he falls asleep right there on the ground, beneath the stars.

Yan stares at the mirror, aghast. Is this a sign of the future? Is that what they’ll look like if they can’t get Senpai?? They force themself awake and resolve to confess to Senpai that very Friday. That future must never come to pass!

Bim straightens his suit, checking to make sure the hole he sees is imaginary before moving off. Surely it’s just a nightmare, and nightmares pass. He’ll run lines until it all fades away like a bad memory.

Bing stares at the person in the mirror, the person who looks like him but  _ wrong _ . His insignia flickers with dull light, hanging by a thread from a shirt that looks like it was placed in a rock tumbler instead of a dryer. The dark fabric is shiny, sticking unnaturally to the skin underneath, and it takes him a few moments to process that it’s stuck with  _ blood. _ His reflection is bleeding, badly from the looks of it, and it unsettles something deep in his processor to think about. He can’t bleed.

The reflection stares back, a hand pressed desperately to the glass, the other wrapped tight around their waist as if they’re trying to hug themself, as if they’re hurt and trying to hold themself together.

They mouth something, and it takes a few times for him to recognize the words.

‘Help me,’ They seem to yell without sound, ‘Please, please help me, he left me I can’t get out please please--’

Their, his, form is wracked by sobs, and they fall to their knees on blackness, blank empty space that never ends.

Tears fall from their, his, eyes, mirrored by a small trail of oil leaking from his own optics at the raw emotion. And without a second thought, he reaches out a hand.

His hand doesn’t hit glass, but sinks through, and it’s like sticking his hand in a milkshake while it’s still being blended, freezing and painful and cutting but he clenches his jaw, turns off his pain receptors and gropes around until his hand closes on something and he  _ tugs-- _

And wakes up.

He’s not entirely sure how he knows, but he’s not alone in his unit anymore.


	2. Waist Deep in Thought (Because When I Think of You, I Don't Feel so Alone)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me, trying to write Bing: AGHHHH I DON'T SPEAK HIMBRO--
> 
> Ahhhh I'm so glad y'all seem to be liking this so far!! Thank all of you who commented, thank all of you who gave kudos, and extra thank all of you who bookmarked this because I just--- Ahhhhhhhhh!!! >///< anyway hope you enjoy :3
> 
> (Edit: So apparently I switched from present to past tense halfway through this ;_; rip me but it's fixed now at least!)

It’s an odd feeling, like receiving an unexpected update-- a section of his mind, his code, that’s in him but isn’t him. The feeling of a presence and feelings that aren’t his, a whirlwind of pain-stress-trepidation-relief-gratitude that would’ve knocked him off his feet if he’d charged vertically. As it is it takes him a few tries to sit up, and he mentally files away a reminder to rub in Google’s face that his bed  _ does too _ have a use, though he isn’t entirely sure how he’d go about explaining said use and wow his thoughts are zooming around like a cat on catnip and maybe he should slow down a bit--

The presence, his reflection, reaches out for just a moment before curling back around themself. Like they expect him to smack them away, after accepting them into his system without reading any kind of terms and conditions. He grasps for them, the action not unlike pulling on his databanks, and freezes as faces, names, places flash past his eyes, some familiar and some completely foreign as images begin to take shape, a party, a man dead on the floor, a gun, falling, blue and red and black and  _ trust _ and then the mirror. And then Dark.

He sees the spell, feels the magic that let the blue and the red in, and sees them use the last of their energy, their conviction to send out an SOS, days, weeks, decades later. He sees them use the same spell as he let them in.

His fans whir to life as he blinks rapidly, trying to puzzle out what any of that had meant, feelings and impressions all blended together into a confusing mishmash of sensation that left him reeling. Their presence shrinks down even further, all but radiating contrition and the same, ever-burning fear-stress-grief-pain. 

  
  


Bing doesn't know who they are, when they’re from, or why they're now riding passenger in his systems with him. But he does know one thing-- he was designed to help people. And that's what he's going to do.

He elects to ignore that…  _ that _ for now. “So, uh… You got a name broski?”

They shift, shooting him an image of a fuzzy nameplate in a fuzzy office, vague impressions suggesting filing cabinets on every wall and a cherry wood desk. It flickers to become a paper, an indistinct hand signing the sheet with several smooth swishes of a pen, and then a smaller but equally blurry hand tracing out squiggles in crayon-- they pull back, frustration-pain-stress-grief clouding the connection as he frowns.

“Can’t remember… Well do ya have somethin’ I can call you at least, buddy?”

The image is a face this time, clearer-- someone who looks like Mark in a suit smiling but flickering out before he can even open his mouth. They shy back, and he lets them go, confused as ever.

“We gotta find a better way to talk, man-- er, do you mind being called that--? I’ll steer clear of that one, no problem bud. Is bro still okay? Okay, sure thing bro-- I hafta head down to breakfast soon and I can’t be talkin’ to myself all day or I’ll look pretty sus.”

His unnamed passenger gives the impression of acceptance, tinged with anxiety, and a flicker of curiosity. The question is pretty clear.

“Well, uh, I can try the whole pictures and emotions thing but it seems kinda… not inefficient but flawed? I’m missing a helluva lotta context for half the stuff you send me. And you can’t really talk to me, I guess, or you’da just told me what was up…”

There’s a quiet little noise, a little hum that comes not from his machinery but from his own voicebox, and it sends him wheeling back to a corner of his server he didn’t know existed. There’s something like a sigh, a few crackling noises and a few hummed notes before he’s back in control and the passenger is firmly back in their corner.

“What the **** was that?!”

They cringe, but the images they send him just confuse him more until suddenly an alarm starts beeping. The screen he pulls up sets off his censor a few more times.

“Aw **** I’m running late-- look bro, just-- try not to do the pictures in front of people, okay? I don’t know what it looks like when you do, but if the other egos or--God forbid-- the Googles think something’s wrong they might force a reboot and I’m not sure what that’d do to you. It’d be a major bummer to lose you so soon, dude.”

As he’s unplugging his charging cord, they send him an image of an old timey car, screeching dramatically to a halt. The image of himself pulling up a screen pops up, wrapped in confusion-wonder-excitement with only the barest trace of their negative emotions lapping at the edges.

“I’m an android, bro. Artificial intelligence in a rockin’ bod!”

He opens his door as he says it, and Ed shoots him a look that all but radiates judgement before stalking towards the kitchen, grumbling about coffee. Bing feels his cheeks heat up, and hopes the orange isn’t too visible as he attempts to lower his volume.

The presence, however, is not helping the flush go down, images whizzing by as they try to ask him a million questions, all wrapped in awe-joy-excitement-melancholy-amazement. He chuckles, scratching the back of his neck and electing to use the stairs Ed hadn’t taken. Sure, the lights were still broken from when Wilford had shot them out, but it’s not like he needed the light-- even without his night vision, his cheeks are bright enough to bathe the entire stairwell in a cozy orange glow. They’re amazed by  _ him. They think he’s  _ amazing! It’s all he can do not to break down into a puddle of embarrassed, ecstatic goo, right there on the stairs.

“Whoa, whoa there dude, I can only answer so many questions-- and besides, we’re about to have company, and a lot of it. Tell ya what-- I’mma give you access to my databanks for the day, and you can look up all the answers you like. That way we don’t hafta worry about anyone hearing us talk, you have somethin’ to do, and I can pretend to do my work and goof off in peace! Whatcha say?”

They send him a bundle of emotions, mostly slight exasperation and humor at his reluctance to work, the smallest hint of fond nostalgia and grief trailing behind, but he doesn’t feel any objections.

“Gnarly, bro!” He turns the corner and runs straight into Ed, knocking the ego’s coffee and his own shades to the floor with a loud crash.

“Aw ****, my shades!” Bing grabs them off the floor, but he knows they're a lost cause before they've even left the floor. The left lens has all but exploded, dozens of tiny mirrored shards glittering up from the rapidly-expanding coffee puddle.

He blinks.

“Oh **** Ed, I’m sorry I didn’t even think--”

The ego just stares at him, dark eyes peering over his own shades. “You. Are gettin’ me a new mug. And a new coffee.”

“N-no problem man, sorry again--”

“Just… go. An’ next time watch where yer goin’ steada Skypin’ yer lil boyfriend there, ye hear?”

“I-- Cha-- We aren’t-- Coffee, got it, bye Ed!”

The android bolts around the corner, all but sprinting for the kitchen. Somehow he doesn’t think the blush on his face will be going away anytime soon.

*************

Between making Ed a new coffee, slinking off to his room to get a new, unbroken pair of shades, and trying his best to avoid doing any actual work, he’s almost able to forget the additional person in his head, digging through various files like one of King’s squirrels. The comparison earns him a very unimpressed bundle of emotion, but it’s a delightful image all the same-- a fuzzy little tail twitching with the same curiosity and drive for knowledge that he feels rolling off the presence, little ears flattening with displeasure at his giggling. They send him something that feels decidedly like a huff, mixed with something sardonic and probably biting if they used actual words, before plunging back into the world wide web in search of answers (and possibly acorns).

When he settles down for a recharge, a lingering feeling of awkwardness from the whole Ed situation still coloring his cheeks a light orange, he’s a little surprised to see them again-- still looking like a raggedy version of himself, but this time almost vibrating with excitement. Clearly their time in his files has done them a world of good, even as fresh tears run down their cheeks in never-ending streams and the dark patch on their shirt grows larger with every shift and twitch.

“Sah, dude, you alright? If I didn’t know better I’d say you’d gotten into Host’s chocolate covered espresso beans. Which you should never do by the way, dude is  _ serious  _ about people touching his stuff--”

His impromptu passenger waves a hand, catching his attention, and, with carefully practiced motions, they begin to sign.

_ “Hello, my name is DA.” _

“Dah? Is it like a nickname or--”

They shake their head and sign again,  _ “D A. Letters. Thought we’d need way to talk, so looked up how sign. Remember few signs but, long time. Things change” _

“Ohhhh, gotcha dude! So you’re DA? Well I know some dudes with weirder names, no judgement here broski. Though I do have a question…”

They tilt their head to the side, but it seems they need a bit more practice before they’re fully conversational.

“Why do you look like me? Not that I mind, everyone I live with has pretty much the same face, just… Is it ‘cuz we’re sharing a server for the mo’?”

DA looks down at themself like they hadn’t noticed their appearance. They tug gently at the shirt, grimacing, and for just a moment it flickers to a truly ruined white dress shirt. He isn’t sure what’s stranger-- the flickering, or seeing himself in a shirt with sleeves.

They tilt their head to the side, brow furrowed and eyes closed, and their entire body flickers and glitches, switching between hair colors and textures, skin tones, heights, weights, even multiple numbers of limbs too fast for any to take any concrete appearance before finally settling--

Into a featureless grey silhouette, like a clay doll someone had forgotten to finish. They had only the barest suggestion of features, the lines of their face fuzzy and indistinct and constantly changing. Sometimes they stabilized, momentarily, their appearance shifting towards Mark or Ethan or even Jack, for a confusing moment, before they seemingly gave up and let themselves settle into something all but blank. Only the clothing stayed the same-- the white dress shirt, rumpled and dirty and torn. A pair of smart black slacks, covered in dirt and leaves. Black dress shoes, spattered at the toe with mud and something he hoped wasn’t still more blood.

Twin tears trickle down the place where cheeks would be, running down the vaguest impression of a chin. An amorphous hand tries to wipe them away, only for them to speed up, and eventually they just cover their face and shake until he’s once again looking at his own rumpled form.

_ “100 years,” _ they sign, and their hands twitch wordlessly before they lift their face to mouth it instead. ‘I don’t-- Maybe it was the mirror, making me reflect people instead of taking my own form. But even if I could change how I look, I… I don’t remember. What I used to look like.’

Bing wraps them in a hug as they quiet, his processor teeming with questions he’s saving for another day, and as he slips back into his usual charging mode, he thinks again of the blank, ever-changing form of the DA, their only constants being their injuries and their tears. They’d looked like they’d died afraid, he thinks. They’d looked like they’d died crying.

*************

It wouldn’t be until later, when the coffee and ceramic and lens shards had long been cleaned up and he was lying down to go to sleep, that Ed would realize that Bing’s eyes had been orange-- not the teal that took over when he was in a call or texting someone.

‘Then who the hell was he talking to?’, he would wonder, before slipping off to sleep, blissfully unaware of the chaos his innocent little inquiry would bring come morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So fun fact there's a hint as to where this story (and Bing) will eventually head in this chapter, what do y'all think? :3 Thanks for reading!


	3. They Are Gone (But They Used to be Mine)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bing learns some stuff about his new passenger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Decided to cut this chapter up for two reasons-- one, it was getting a little long. Two, I'm having some trouble with the secnd half of this chapter, but this part is fine (hopefully). Hoe y'all like it!

He thinks he’s close to waking up when he’s tugged back, into the place the DA resides inside him. They stare at him with trepidation, stress making every line of their form rigid and tense.

_ “I tried to show you, before, what happened,”  _ They sign, hands shaky and unsure but clear all the same. “ _ I have to tell you. What happened to me, and what I’ve done to you. _ ”

They wring their hands, tightening their grip for just a short moment before their expression becomes resigned, determined, and they begin their tale.

_ “I wasn’t the DA for long before everything happened-- but it had been long enough that that’s what my friends called me. There weren’t many of them-- a few, good friends was all I needed. I’d never been one to bring unnecessary attention to myself. _

_ “Which is rather ironic, seeing as one of said friends was the most over-the-top, attention-seeking person I’d ever met. Well, we weren’t all that close-- I really only became friends with him because my roommate was friends with him, and had been since they were children. I tolerated him, for D-- my roommate’s sake. And he enjoyed having another person to look at him, I suppose. _

_ “Deep, deep down, though, I saw traces of a good person-- someone who protected his own. I remember once, someone harassing me-- I don’t remember quite why, though at the time I was incredibly upset. I got home, ready to rant at Dames until I didn’t feel angry anymore, but he wasn’t there. Mark was, though, and the moment he asked me what was wrong I burst into tears. Neither of us were expecting it, and he panicked-- rather fantastically. It was quite hilarious once I’d managed to stop. _

_ “I explained what had happened, and he got the oddest look on his face before hugging me and telling me not to worry. I never learned what he did, and he pretended not to know what I was talking about when I asked him, but to the day we graduated that person would turn and walk in the opposite direction whenever they saw me. It made it quite difficult to complete that group project in our last year… but I digress. _

_ “After we’d graduated, and Mark had become an actor and I was finishing law school and D-- well, the future Mayor was forging connections and building a platform, he got married. They split, though, very messily, only a few years later, and even D-- the woman’s twin had little insight into what had happened. And Mark… he took it hard. So very hard. He shut us all out, for years he spoke to no one, answered no letters or calls and refused to see us when we’d visit. I’d all but given up when the invitation came… to a party. A poker party. _

_ “I was so glad to hear from him, more than just whatever garbage the tabloids could dredge up, that I didn’t bother questioning why-- why now, why us, why was he acting like nothing had ever happened. I should have. _

_ “The next morning was rough. We all woke later than usual, all of us hungover, and I was the first down the stairs when… When I found the body. _

_ “Mark was an asshole. A self-aggrandizing, insufferable, dramatic, whiny asshole. But he was also my friend. And there he was, dead on the floor. _

_ “It was chaos. Everything broke down, people accusing each other left and right, as we’d determined that the killer had to be one of us. The Detective insisted I help him, and between the body vanishing and Celine-- the Mayor’s sister, and Mark’s ex-wife-- turning up in the middle of an armed standoff, things were escalating at an extreme pace. _

_ “Most of us had gone out to-- to question someone, I believe-- when suddenly the house lit up with dark energy, and D-- the Mayor and Celine had vanished into the gathering dark. The Detective accused the Colonel, and-- being already rather on edge-- the Colonel shot him in the heart. I moved to take the gun from him, and he shot me too.” _

Here, they paused, their hand going to the ruined skin of their abdomen as the other rubbed their neck as if trying to work a kink out of it.

_ “I… I don’t think he’d intended to hurt me. Not really. He tried to catch me, but it was too late. I fell over the bannister, my neck snapped, and I died.” _

They take a deep breath, or mime one, at least. It’s supposed to help humans relax, compose themselves, he knows, but it’s not something he’s ever understood.

_ “Something was… wrong. With the house. You’d walk from one room to the next in a blur. Sometimes it was as if the floor plan changed when you weren’t looking. Time got… funny. You could wander off to find the bathroom and be gone for hours, only to learn that you were lost five minutes. _

_ “Death was wrong, too. I found myself in a void, with D-- with the Mayor and his sister. Mark had taken his body, and they-- they asked for help. I just wanted to help.”  _ Their hands falter, more and more tears falling from their eyes. Their shoulders shake with silent sobs, and still they press on.

_ “I-- I let them in. Celine used a spell and suddenly we were back, in my body, but then we looked in a mirror and they-- they shoved me-- me out, into a mirror and I couldn’t get out, I couldn’t do anything and they left and I was alone, all alone, for so long, and the worst part is I don’t even know how long and--” _

Another breath they don’t need, in the dreams of a machine. A deep, shuddering breath, rising up from the depths of their being to spread an unsteady sort of calm through their extremities.

_ “After... after, I found I could… Do things. Small things. I could go from mirror to mirror. I could move things, small things, if I focused very hard. And, after a time, I figured out that I could reach out to others in their dreams. _

_ “I could do nothing but watch, until very recently-- having no dreams of my own, sometimes it could be pleasant as a change of pace. It wasn’t until one of my-- my friend had a nightmare that I managed to change it. He was-- shocked. Afraid. I think he thought I was-- that place. I don’t blame him for blocking me out. _

_ “I tried, then, with some of the others. The Butler was difficult to reach, and I don’t think he understood me. The Chef… I didn’t even try. George is either lost or lost to me. D-- they… left. The Colonel-- I don’t know what’s become of him. I could barely force myself to try, and I don’t think he remembers me. _

_ “I had no luck at all until I managed to reach Mark. He didn’t recognize me, but asked if I was a new ‘ego’. I could feel you, all of you, through him-- bits of his essence given life through belief. In a way, he did manage to help me-- he led me to you. And, well… You know the rest.” _

He can feel them, their hesitance, as they finish signing, hands clasped in front of them in a way that reminds him of Eric. Their anxiety, and their deep-seated, paralysing fear, and their resignation. They’re ready for rejection, he knows. For him to shot-put them from his system like an errant bit of dust and leave them, all alone, for however long they’d have without the mirror keeping them grounded in reality. The spell they’d used was dark-- even his incredibly lax base of knowledge was enough to know that any spell that let a person take over someone’s body and then kick them from it as easily as kicking a troll in Among Us isn’t something someone’d invent for ****s and giggles. But all they’d wanted was help, and they hadn’t even tried to take over, though they certainly could’ve.

He wraps his arms around them. It’s the only thing he can think to do. It isn’t quite a hug, since technically neither of them actually physically exist, but he thinks it gets the point across.

“Thank you for telling me, bro. It’s… it’s okay. I’ve got an idea, someone who can help us sort out all this magic crap, but for now… For now let’s just work on getting your strength up. Okay?”

They nod, all but crumbling into his hold and shaking like they’re going to fall apart. He stands and just… holds them, for however long they need.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are nice if you feel up to it :3 Doesn't even have to be about the story, jut come scream about egos. Share headcanons. I give no cares.


	4. It's An F***ed Up World But It's a Two Player Game

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise, not dead! I've been staring at this chapter since Christmas and I'm still not entirely happy with it but I'm already planning on rewriting parts of this story once I'm done so I'm going to put it up anyway. Hope you like it!

DA pulls back, finally, an enormous yawn all but splitting their face in half. Bing feels himself mimicking them and narrows his eyes. “Wait a sec,” he grumbles. DA looks a little nervous all of a sudden.

“You pulled an all nighter practicing sign didn’t you?”

‘Technically I can’t sleep--’

“But I betcha didn’t rest either, did you?”

‘You should probably wake up--’

“Oh no you don’t! Data banks are off limits til you rest!” He doesn’t feel right, cutting them off from their one real way of interacting with the world at the moment. But he also gets the distinct feeling that they’re the type of person who has no concept of taking breaks, going on the sheer longing he’d felt from them when brewing a new coffee for Ed and their almost manic joy as they’d eagerly devoured any and every bit of information they could get their hands on.

“Broski. Bro-bro. My brain bud, ghosty-goo, palerino--”

‘Those are terrible, fuck, stop talking, I’ll rest just please never call me any of that ever again--’

Bing feels a smile start to stretch across his face before snapping awake with an unpleasant jolt. Green stands over him, charging cable in one hand and a pail in the other.

“Oh,” he mutters, looking distinctly disappointed in spite of his deadpan expression. “You are functioning.”

“Yeah, bruh, I coulda toldya that. No need to rip my charger out all rude like.”

“I must inform the others of this… joyous… news. It seems our data was flawed, and you are still… functioning. For your own definition of ‘functioning.’ There is no need for this.”

“Yeah, yeah, sorry for raining on your parade-- IS THAT  _ SODA _ ?!”

“I’m  _ sorry _ , I am unable to answer your question at this time,” His green eyes glow maliciously, and there’s no doubt in Bing’s mind that he’s disappointed at not being able to justify pouring the equivalent of hydrochloric acid onto his broken body. He tries not to let him bother him too much. “Please contact your administrator with any questions or complaints.”

“Sheesh, hide  _ one easter egg  _ in  _ one Google unit _ and everyone acts like it’s the end of the world!”

“The egg remained unlocated inside of Google Red™ for nearly two months. It was hardly a  _ harmless prank. _ ”

“How did you make that noise with your mouth, this is a verbal conversation--”

“Irrelevant,” Green scoffs, all but storming off with his pail.

Bing glares after him before doing his best to turn it internally, at the rippling amusement coming from the peanut gallery inside his processor. 

“You,” he grumbles, grabbing for his shades before remembering their tragic end the day before, “Are going to rest. Now.”

There’s a wave of petulant protest, tinged with pained nostalgia, but they settle with little fuss into a state he accepts as chill enough to count as resting.

A glance at his internal clock has him cursing and scrambling for a comb. No wonder they’d sent someone to check on him-- he’d charged straight through breakfast and nearly through lunch for the first time in his (admittedly not terribly long) existence.

He doesn’t need to eat, being an android, but meals are one of few times he gets to see most of the other egos without having to seek them out. Most everyone turns up to at least one meal a day. It almost made him feel like they were a family-- a huge, slightly terrifying, dysfunctional family, with a problematic ratio of murderers-to-innocents, but a family nonetheless.

He half trips out of his room and slides down the bannister, startling Eric as he skids into his usual seat between him and Silver. The latter just sighs, staring at a photo of his girlfriend and picking at his sandwich.

“O-oh, hi Bi-Bing! We muh-muh-missed you at break… at breakfast.” The youngest ego is trembling, but at least he’s coherent, and he actually tries for a smile; likely because his father seems to be skipping the meal. The older man is far too hard on the lil dude, in Bing’s opinion.

Lunch is as pleasant as it ever is (which is to say, there are three fires and Wilford nearly shoots down the chandelier), and Bing is about ready to head out when he gets a message from Chase, agreeing to his request to hang out tomorrow. His eyes light up teal, hopefully disguising the happy flush to his cheeks as he starts messaging back.

“So I was right.”

“Huh?” With a blink, Bing banishes the overlay and looks across the table.

“Yer eyes,” Ed gestures with his steak knife. “When ya get a message or whatever, they change color.”

“...Yeah? They’ve always done that, man.”

“Not yesterday, they didn’t.”

Bing blinks at him before stiffening-- yesterday morning, when he’d been talking to DA. His sunglasses had shattered on the floor, so Ed had had a clear view of his face and eyes especially. Outright denial isn’t gonna work.

“Oh,” he mumbles, then tries again at a more characteristic volume. “Oh! Yeah, just a teensy-tiny mechanical thing, no need to worry! I was just ironing out some deets with my bro Chase. Gonna meet up with him, skate a bit--”

“You have been neglecting upgrades again.”

Bing narrowly avoids setting off his censor, instead turning to glare at Yellow. It’s not as harsh as it could be-- the ‘droid is marginally less obnoxious than his fellow units, and is adorably sweet on Eric no matter how he tries to deny it-- but he’s currently most certainly  _ not helping _ .

“Nah, bro, it’s fine, really! Got one scheduled, I’ll just take care of that now-- why don’t you go help Eric run lines, I’m sure he’d love some help isn’t that right lil buddy?” He all but spins Eric into Yellow’s arms, and both of them noticeably flush as he does his best to keep his anxiety from reaching his passenger, who’s stirring more every second.

“Ya got a bug?” Ed looks actually concerned now, and more and more egos are turning to see what’s going on. The Jims appear to be setting up to interview him. He needs to get out of this,  _ now. _

Face pinned up in an undoubtedly strained smile, he attempts to finger-gun his problems away.

“Nah man, nothin’ major! Nothin’ a quick reboot won’t solve anyway, but I gotta skedaddle-- miles to go before we sleep an’ all that jazz!”

Ed lowers his shades to stare at him, brows raised so far they’ve vanished under his hat. “Yer…  _ Willingly _ goin’ ta reboot. Yer actin’ twitchier th’n a mouse in a pit o’ rattlers. An’ now yer quot’n’ Robert Frost. Who th’ Hell’re you an’ whatcha done wi’ the bot?”

Bing rolls his eyes. “Pshah, dude, first of all I’m an android? Not a robot? Ya dig? Second of all, I’ve got the whole interweb at the tips of my fingies! I can recite anything Robert Frost ever wrote. Just cuz I’m not constantly mouthing off like the Reading Rainbow troupe over there doesn’t mean I’m dumb.”

As one, all four Googles swivel to glare at him. “We are not rainbow, as we are lacking an orange or purple unit. Perhaps you ought to check the accuracy of your databanks, if you cannot keep something so simple straight.”

“Okay, Boomer,” Bing rolls his eyes, and has to use all of his willpower to avoid making a gay joke. Now is not the time to out himself dangit!

“That insult does not make sense. None of us are ‘Boomers’, as we only came into being within the last decade.”

“Okay, Boomer!”

“Once. Again. That insult does not make sense. If any egos were to be considered ‘Boomers’, it would be those portrayed as older-- Derek Derekson and Ed Edgar, amongst others.”

“Now hold on jus’ a minute there--'' Ed finally pulled his eyes away from Bing. “Which one o’ you rust buckets decided ta class me as a Boomer? I’m younger’n all y’all!”

“We are Ageless, being androids. You, however, act and appear older than the other egos, possibly because of the facial hair--”

“Stop callin’ me old, dammit--!”

Chaos is quick to spread, yet again, to the rest of the egos, though thankfully Wilford had been led off by a grumbling Dark after the previous firearms related incident, so there’s no gunfire on top of all the yelling. However, that also means there’s no Dark to reign things in, and so it takes very little effort to slip away as the situation goes from a mild screaming match to an all-out food fight. He nods briefly to the Host as he passes his spot, and tries not to be too unsettled at the way the corners of his mouth quirk up, narrations never ceasing even as the volume shoots even higher. Despite the freely-flying food, silverware, and glasses of various liquids, there isn’t so much as a speck of dust within three feet of him.

Bing sighs, flopping back against his bed and sets about ironing out the final details with Chase. Even without his ghostly friend, he’s long overdue for a break.

*************

Why he decided to do this to himself, he just doesn’t understand some days.

He could be enacting his revenge, taking advantage of the fragile trust ~~**_that MonSTeR_**~~ has placed in him ~~them **her**~~ due to their ceasefire, finally getting his revenge. He could be relaxing, or reading, or scaring strangers who decided to fuck around with Ouija boards.

Instead, he is pulling apart yet another pair of egos, wailing and squabbling like children. It makes him wonder, not for the first time, why he’s sentenced himself to a life of constantly having to listen to the stupidest arguments he’s ever heard ,  ~~_ and he used to be a politician. It used to be a game they’d play, over lunch or dinner or coffee or at 3 in the morning--the stupidest reason for an argument they’d heard recently. They usually won, with some of the most depressingly ridiculous reasons for court cases possibly ever  _ **Disgustingly domestic holy fuck Dames even I was never that mushy** . ~~

They jolt out of  ~~_ his _ ~~ memories and snarl, setting the feuding egos to work cleaning the dining room in time for dinner and silencing any protest with a flare of power.

Dark frowns. The sheer volume of mayhem had almost made him forget what day it was… A hundred years since the worst weekend of his life. The last weekend of his life.

He’s feeling nostalgic, oddly so. Mayhaps he’ll go back, just for a moment. See how his… old friend ~~_His little monster_ **Damien’s pet** Its little experiment~~ is holding up, all on their lonesome in that big empty house. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, that argument scene though *sweatdrops* oh well. If you want to see what I've been doing for the last week, go check out the absolute monster I'm about to post! Thank all y'all for supporting me and being awesome!

**Author's Note:**

> Wanna yell about egos? Find me at hidinginmybochard on tumblr. Or yell in the comments. Either one works.


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